Water - Sucker Punch

It was another one of those Tuesdays. Garbage Can had slept in late- a futile attempt at recuperation after last night's marathon bad-guy-thwarting. It had been like this for two weeks now. It was getting harder and harder to remember what life was like before his best friend developed the British accent. Garbage Can hadn't seen an unattractive girl in 13 days, and he was pretty confident that he was the hairiest man alive.

It had all happened so fast; the world never had a chance to reassemble after the initial shock. It was as if the entire human population had been sucker-punched by a random assailant. Mankind, collectively, was out on a picnic. A scrawny white kid wearing a baseball cap walked up, gave a nod of the head, and hit us, right in the face. A clear spring day, in view of the pope, he smacked us. No one knew quite why we got sucker punched, but before anyone had a chance to figure out we punched back. Biting, punching, laser-beaming, it's an all out brawl.

And we don't even know who punched us.

That was as far as it went in Garbage Can's medium sized brain. There wasn't time to think any more. This new life demanded action. A new era had seized upon the world two weeks ago, and this epoch was clearly not fit for the thinking types.

14 days ago, on a Tuesday morning entirely different from the current example of Tuesday, Steve Chalk woke up to his cell phone alarm. Perpetually early and most definitely out to get him, Steve had no qualms about throwing the poor device out the window. After all, it did wake him up- vengeance tastes great in the morning.

Steve took the usual 14 uneven steps to the bathroom. The release of his bodily fluids did little to wake the lumbering giant. Standing at five foot eleven, he made Chinese people gasp when he walked by.

Normal people? Nah, not as much gasping. Sort of disappointing really.

As he washed his hands, he looked up into the mirror. Squinting against the pain due to the obscene amount of light in the room, he took a deep breath. It was then, in that brief flash of agony, that he had a monumental thought. "What if I had webbed feet, and, like, I could run really fast?"

As monumental as this thought was, it bears no importance in this narrative.

Two seconds later, Steve discovered his new beard. Big, it was big. So big, in fact, that it simply meshed together with his eyebr- err... unibrow. After much tedious and painful thought (it was still morning you know) Steve came to the conclusion that he was thoroughly and entirely covered in thick and luscious hair. Bright and orange, he was concerned about his shampoo supply.

Two hours later, Steve began to realize he wasn't the only one to wake up different. His chemistry teacher failed to not ignite the whiteboard with his gaze five times. The smelly kid that nobody likes showed up to school with wings, big ones.

Perhaps the most shocking moment of the morning came shortly after Steve arrived at the high school. Showing up early to class, he took his seat. Brief moments later, his heart tried out for the US gymnastics team. Forgetting his newfound coat, he stared at the doorway. There, framed by oak not worthy of her presence, stood Alicia Brown, the ugliest girl since Stonehenge. Memory's repulsive veil slid from his eyes, and there she stood, the most beautiful being Steve had ever seen. Her hair blew in the nonexistent breeze, her body silhouetted by the absent spot light. When she moved, it was with the grace of a Mars Rover. Carefully calculated, deliberate, and filled with enough power to make even the strongest man cheer in wonder and amazement.

He was drooling, but it was alright- he had a beard.

It took Steve a moment to regain composure. She took her seat. Steve retook his (he had fallen to the floor, you see). She made a dainty little cough. Steve burped.

Mid-belch, another spectacular figure threw open the door and bathed the world with beauty once more. Ready for it this time, he managed to remain in his desk. Two more followed. It was like a mad scientist had combined all the deliciousness of a whopper with a cheetah and Ghandi's attractive girlfriend.

The glorious parade continued, Steve began to feel less dizzy. The smart kid came in, wearing green sunglasses. Fashion statement? Hardly, the man's eyes were causing plants to erupt out of anything he concentrated on hard enough. Leonard floated in to class, Hernando came in dripping something that looked like motor oil.

The whole class sat in awkward silence for the next 92 minutes, no joke. Steve was going stir crazy. It was as if everybody had their tongues tied around the changes that had come over them. He wanted so much to nudge Brett and say something suave like "Hey, check out this beard." Brett, however, refused to make eye contact, and instead was focusing on wearing a bowler cap.

At lunch, a fight broke out. Fisticuffs break out all the time, but most don't usually result in asteroid impacts. To be fair, they were small rocks, hardly life threatening. To be accurate, thousands of chunks of two or more minerals thrown together falling from heaven hurt like the dickens. The supplier of the 'roids, Charlie, got attacked by a vicious super break dance gang. Not knowing what to do, he took a chance on the death from above approach. Way to go Charlie.

It's been two weeks since the world changed. Cape sales exceeded yearly expectations on Wednesday alone. Since the new life started, Steve had participated in no less than four bad-guy-thwarting adventures. He'd seen friends come and go, nuclear crises rise and fall. His left leg was turned into a movie review.

As Garbage Can reflected on the last two weeks of his life, he couldn't help but miss the cell phone he had thrown out the window. He couldn't resist the urge to sit in his office chair like old times and spin around just once or twice. "What," he questioned, "happened to the days when my greatest worry was English homework?"

The high school was destroyed the day after the world changed. No more homework. Lots more bad guys. Garbage Can knew that this was just the beginning. The world had been thrust out of the old system. The social ladder shattered, the economy gone. He was part of this new world. Everything was different, everything was changed. Life was new, life was hairy.

Garbage Can looked at the calendar. Two bad-guy-thwartings scheduled for the evening. Great.

Water - Elusive Midnight

14 days after awakening, 7:05 PM, outside the bowling alley.

It smelled terrible. Much worse than August was supposed to smell.

The crew had arrived early. After a quick briefing, the two squadrons fell into position and waited for the word to go. With another thwarting scheduled right after this one, everyone was eager to get the job done.

The radio cracked. "This is Alpha Squadron to Dainty Squadron, do you copy?"

Alpha Squadron was the good guys. Nine or so people dedicated to making sure the bad guys didn't succeed in destroying the world with the new opportunities that the changes gave them. An elite fighting crew, they were four and zero for encounters with bad guys.

Recently reassigned from Alpha Squadron, Derrick Avery was the sole member of the Dainty Squadron. Proud leader, follower, and quartermaster, he crouched behind the dumpster, glaring at the radio that just addressed him.

In his head, Derrick wasn't happy with his newfound position of leadership. Squadrons are great and all, but a name like that? What ever happened to Beta Squadron? They skipped right over Charlie Squadron, and Charlie is a very respectable squadron name!

"Yeah, I copy, I'm in position," Avery replied.

"This is important Avery, do you have the package?"

The package was a stick of ladies' deodorant. Of course he had the package.

"Affirmative, I've got the package in the cadoozle, am I cleared to proceed?"

"Ten-four. Do it Dainty, go go go!"

With a deep breath, Avery uncapped the pink stick. Elusive Midnight touched skin - the change began.

~

When mankind realized what had happened 14 days ago, everyone's priorities were altered. The pressing questions that Art Finnigan faced last month were rendered entirely irrelevant after the change. Your major in college doesn't matter so much when you can stretch like Gumby. Questions like, "Hey Lisa, you wanna go to McDonalds?" aren't important once McDonalds has been frozen in time by the Arby's night shift. Stuff like, "Should I date Elizabeth?" is easily answered when you bear in mind that Elizabeth just grew wings and has been turning gum into terrifying projectiles.

See? Everything was different now. The priorities and concerns of the former life were cast aside once the changes came. No man's worries were left identical to the past, no man's but Derrick Avery's.

For Derrick, the question that plagued him every morning before the change plagued him still.

When Derrick woke up 14 days ago, he went through the normal morning business. Wake up, eat, shower - pause.

For six minutes every morning for the past five years, Derrick would stand in front of his dresser and ponder the deepest and potentially most important question the universe has ever seen.

"What flavor deodorant do I wear today?" he would muse, "blue rush, silver ice, or rock hard?"

It wasn't really Derrick's fault. His mom insisted on supplying him with a variety of scents and aromas. Sometimes she even stocked his dresser with four or five varieties instead of the usual three. On such occasions, he was forced to spend even more than the monumental six minutes to debate the merits of each individual stick. Eventually he would reach a decision. Derrick knew after those six minutes, without a doubt, who he wanted to be today. Derrick wanted to be rock hard, and he smelled the part.

14 days ago was no different. He considered the pros and cons of each stick. Blue rush is body responsive, but Rock Hard, that's got easy glide AND all day protection...

A dilemma indeed. One that ultimately led to Derrick choosing Silver Ice, a moderately strong stick that, in his mind, sent the message of, "Look at me, I dare to be different". Really, it was just deodorant, get over it.

That morning as Derrick looked in the mirror he beheld a masterpiece. Where Garbage Can had hair, Derrick was ice, silver ice.

Not a coincidence. Derrick was what scientists in 100 years would finally get around to classifying as a translucite. Unlike most people, the changes that overcame him were not definite characteristics manifested on the outside. Instead, Derrick assumed the powers of his deodorant.

I remind you, mankind doesn't know who punched them in the face.

But whoever it was has a sick and twisted sense of humor.

~

Derrick felt the changes come over him. This was his first time applying ladies' anti-perspirant. He hardly felt that the back entrance to a bowling alley was the place to be experimenting with cross-gender deodorant application, but alpha squadron had left him with few options.

All uneasiness aside, the effects of Elusive Midnight were already becoming apparent. Derrick's vision focused to a point, his hearing tightened to be crisp and unadulterated. His form was fluid, lithe, and agile. Muscles taut and ready to pounce, he was a highly specialized ninja. He felt invisible, and, melding right into the brickwork, he might as well have been. Only the most dedicated and inspecting eye could catch him now.

It's sure a good thing the bad guys always have good ventilation systems in their hideouts, or we'd all be screwed a long time ago...

With a leap of grace, Derrick landed on the roof. Deftly removing a vent-cover, he slid in, beginning the long journey into the heart of the bad-guy's lair.

Water - Food Particle

Avery - In the vents

Avery was born to duct-fly. He hurried through the dusty labyrinth, drawing closer and closer to the objective. With the plan in head and secret weapon applied, he was the pinnacle of sneaky. Body responsive gel kept him moving faster and faster. Silently swimming through the ventilation he became a ghost's footprint. Quick. Agile. Fluid.

Speed and stealth on the outside- wailing lunatic on the inside.

Penetrating the bad-guys' lair with no idea of what's waiting on the other side of grate 42-B is a frightening experience. Coupled with the recent feminization of his nervous system, Avery was a total wreck. He missed Garbage Can. His hair was ugly, and he was suddenly aware of how fat he looked. Male-Avery-Brain was sparring Female-Avery-Armpit with terrifying results. First he was the fastest animal on the planet, and now he's suddenly incapable of using the restroom by himself. Things were not right upstairs.

Driven by instinct he flew on, psychologically peeing his pants all the way down.

Garbage Can - Parking lot

It didn't take long for Garbage Can to realize he had the crappiest power ever.

Hiding behind the burnt-out suburban with the other eight alphas, Mr. Can was outclassed. Captain Hadoken could fire blue balls of energy. Garbage Can was hairy. Raging Dave wore a hat while his shadow kicked people in the crotch. Garbage Can had a unibrow. Stealing October's left shoe disobeyed the laws of physics. Garbage can was a unibrow.

Mismatched capes and blue jeans bedecked the good guys. The group was admittedly diverse. Age and former social status meant nothing now. There were fat guys and skinny guys, Old ladies and Hadoken's little sister. He didn't know for certain what to expect from the bad guys, but he was willing to bet it'd be another stereotype. Bad guys were like that, no creativity. Once they had realized that the changes had turned them into what they referred to as super heroes they rushed to find the villain that most accurately represented their powers. Adopting the same costume themes and same bad-guy banter as the fictional heroes of the past seemed like great fun to them. It was old and cliche'd, but you try telling that to Professor Ownage.

A puff of smoke appeared above the building, that was the sign.

Captain Hadoken removed his sunglasses.
He paused for a moment, on the brink of an inspirational speech.

"Screw it. let's go."

"That's my kind of leader," answered Raging Dave as the squad broke cover and ran for the bowling alley doors.

Avery - Grate 41-B

Avery hadn't given the sign. In fact, there was no sign. Captain Hadoken told him to flash the sign when he was in position. Avery was not in position, but he didn't know that. Nobody told him what the sign was, and he had forgotten the difference between 41-B and 42-B. He was pretty sure Hadoken didn't even know what the sign was. Avery didn't care about signs, his shoes didn't match.

Sounds of battle echoed through the vents, shaking Avery from his female lapse of awareness. This was no time to worry about fashion, it was time to I wonder if he likes me?

His head had been doing this for the past 40 yards of ducting. He had developed a terrible case of gender A.D.D. and knew he had to take control and regain focus. It was time to break through the vent and regain the artifact. While Alpha distracted the bad guys with a frontal assault, he'd steal the penguin and things would be aeropostale aeropostale aeropostale.

Snap out of it Avery, the deodorants playing tricks on you. Get your head in the game, man!

....Maybe I could be a nurse when I grow up...

No! You're a dude, and dudes grow up to be firefighters and astronauts, not nurses! Why do I suddenly feel less proficient in math and science? Ah! No! Manly thoughts, manly thoughts. Jennifer is attractive? What?! I'm jealous of her hair? What the? I feel like baking?!?!

Avery tumbled out of grate 41-B. He scanned the room. An abandoned kitchen, definitely not his objective. He saw the door and heard the sounds of battle, beckoning the warrior within.

He took a step for hallway. There! In the corner of his eye lay his mortal enemy. The sink was overflowing with them. The dirty dishes cried out, mocking and cajoling the effeminate Avery. "Clean me, I'm dirty! I'm such a mess! I'm just going to keep distracting you from the rest of your life until I'm all tidied up. Food particles! Look at all my food particles!"

He was faced with a choice. Be the man, save thy allies. Be the bride, clean thy dishes.

Hormones were everywhere.

Garbage Can - The Battle

The bad guys had really done it this time. They stole a penguin and told the entire good guy community that they were holding a little girl hostage. Three separate good guy squads had vied for the bid, but Alpha got the job once the other two heard about the classic exploding dam routine that was going on that same evening.

The scheduling had been hectic from day one. It seemed that within moments of the social collapse everyone had aligned themselves to the good side or bad side and then teamed up with their friends to form a super-group. For a mid-sized city like Fortharm, one could expect 20 to 30 bands of bad guys and about 15 squadrons of good guys. Intelligence was spotty. Bad guys were pulling stunts to poison the water supply and blow up the sun all the time. The good guys always planned to show up right before they pulled the trigger and save the world. Battles always ensued, it was intense.

Realizing that they were outnumbered after a whole day of frantically putting out fires and tearing down sun-exploders, the leaders of each local band of good guys met together to form a confederacy of sorts. A loose affiliation at best, it provided a means of exchanging information and 'dibs-ing' your thwart for the evening. A dibs was law. Once you called a thwart as your own, you were responsible for saving the world. Anybody slips up, and, well, life as we know it ceases. It's a self regulating system.

Frankly, Garbage Can was disappointed. After about three days of creative plans to alter the environment or stop continental drift, the bad guys ran out of ideas. They were pulling stunts now just to fight, not to accomplish anything. It was a penguin! Garbage Can had seen 30 of them a month ago at the zoo! He was angry. Angry at the fact that there were two thwarts tonight and one of them was a hoax. Angry that Avery hadn't pulled through for them, angry that he didn't have a cool utility belt.

The two opposites had met in the food court. Garbage Can didn't know why a bowling alley had a food court. He punched a bad guy in the face anyways, it felt like the right thing to do.

Alpha Squadron was outgunned, it was as simple as that. It was 24 to nine, but Garbage Can thought he saw one of them mirror himself a couple times, so it was more like 21 to nine. Not discouraged, they fought on. Hadoken yelled his trademark "Hadoken!" into the night and fired Ryu's special move first to the left, and later to the right. Bodies flew, lasers flew, matching green capes flew.

Oh gosh, they actually sprung for the matching green capes. These bad guys suck.

Avery - Kitchen

Avery was shaking. He was torn between battle and food particles. He couldn't think, he needed chocolate. He was angry and happy and desperate and terrified and confused and curious all at the same time. His mascara was running, and he hadn't even put mascara on.

Garbage Can- Battle

Garbage Can was the first to see the black streak burst through the side doors. It was blurred, moving fast, and transparent. Hard to keep track of, it seemed the only definite way to determine its position was to follow the trail of falling bad guys and bloodcurdling shrieks.

Clobersaurus Rex was sneaking up on Garbage Can. Unlike most bad guys, Clobersaurus was moderately original. He hadn't stolen his identity from a comic book. He beat enemies up with a giant wooden spoon, that's all there was to it.

Unfortunately, his spontaneity ended there. He, like all bad guys, wanted to be dramatic. He was within striking distance, his prey was too absorbed in watching the blur to notice the danger behind him. He raised the spoon to strike and then thought better of it. He needed something dramatic, and hitting your opponent while his was back turned is anything but tense and glory filled. Where was the honor, the emotional power? This was a moment deserving of a great set up, this was a moment you could make a movie out of. He cast about for something, anything to make him look cool before he smote Garbage Can with his trademark stirring device.

After what seemed an eternity of search he had found it. Satisfied with his choice, he gave a sly grin. This was going to be good.

He tapped Garbage Can in the shoulder. Startled, Garbage turned around to face the spoon-ed enemy.

Smiling like an idiot, Clobersaurus opened his mouth to say the most dramatic thing he could remember.

"You want the truth? You can't handle the tru-"

He never had time to finish.

"YOU LEFT A MESS IN THE KITCHEN!!!!!!" was all that was left hanging in the air where Clobersaurus' head had been a half moment before. A powerful kick from sleek and small feet had sent the late dinosaur flying through the air. A dainty shoe print was all that remained to remind the spoon-wielding villain that the last four months of his life hadn't been a dream.

Garbage Can ducked, the blur was everywhere at once. Ricocheting around the room at lightning speed and emitting accusation after accusation, it was a killing machine.

"AND YOU ALWAYS LEAVE THE SEAT UP!!!!"

Down went another two, felled by the super natural and emotionally unstable blur.

"YOU THINK I'M FAT!!!"

"Alpha Squadron, fall back! This is out of our hands now, get out of here!" Bellowed the wounded Captain Hadoken. The blur was speeding up, inflicting concussion and unconsciousness for even the most minor offenses.

"YOU STOLE MY BOYFRIEND!!!!"

High pitched. Whiny. Amazingly terrifying.

Avery - Kitchen (three minutes earlier)

Three minutes before the blur rained a world of hurt on the bad guys, Avery's female side won. Trembling, he rushed over to the sink and frantically began to scrub. He picked up a pot, and the soapy surface slipped out of his stealthy hands. He looked down. They weren't stacked right. They had put dirty dishes in the rinsing side. They forgot to scrape the big food leftovers into the garbage can before they put it in the sink.

Unforgiveable.

They had to pay.

Garbage Can - outside

Garbage can found him 40 minutes later lying in the dumpster. He approached the once deadly blur and began his written speech.

"Dear Derrick. *ahem* You are a dange- danger to yourself and others. You are having a terrible reaction to the deodorant. Please come home, we can take care of you and fix things."

Avery looked up at the familiar face of Garbage Can. He had always been there for him. Always stayed up late with him talking about the boys they liked. He had been a good friend, he decided he could go with him.

Garbage Can hadn't done any of those things. Garbage Can met Avery three weeks ago during PE. He decided it was better to let what was left of Avery's brain think that though, it'd make him easier to handle on the way back to base.

He carried the now sleeping hero back to the waiting van. 12 minutes till the next thwart. Avery psychologically unwell, Hadoken wounded in the leg. It was going to be a long night.

Water - Ordinary

Stories don't start with someone extraordinary, and thus it is fitting that this story neither begins nor ends with Copeman Leeds.

He was a toaster advocate. When he gave friends and associates three guesses as to what his profession was, nobody ever got it right. As far as Leeds knew, he was the only one of his kind in the world.

Leeds had a quest. Ordinary people, when they heard his extraordinary plan, were never quite convinced he wasn't off his rocker. It was an admittedly ambitious plan, a long term endeavor that Leeds would never see come to fruition. He accepted that; it was his plan.

Leeds wasn't necessarily a brilliant fellow, but in some regards he could beat a dog at a game of chess. He didn't possess the hyper-focus that allowed some individuals to solve the great problems of the universe regarding the space time continuum. No, Leeds wasn't Newton or Einstein or even Richard Feynman. What set Leeds apart as an extraordinary individual was his ability and willingness to see the whole picture and act on what he saw.

He knew what he wanted, and he saw toasters as the means to obtain it.

One day as Leeds hungered in his youth he went to the freezer. A foreign package awaited him there, something he'd never seen in his freezer before. They were Eggos. Delicious and wholesome Eggos. He'd seen them advertised for years, but his family wasn't the type to go out and buy Eggos. He had wanted them when he saw the commercials as a lad, but he had accepted the fact that the path his family chose did not include the pseudo-waffles. L'eggo my eggo, the commercials said. L'eggo my dreams, thought Leeds.

But the fact remained that suddenly there were Eggo's in his freezer. He was hungry, and he had a strong faith that the Eggo's would remedy that. He selected a few and rushed off to the toaster. He knew a bit about the comestibles from the television commercials, and thus he understood that the toaster was the next step in the evolution from waffle to juices in his stomach. He inserted the circular goodness and depressed the lever to begin the toasting process. Life for the youthful Leeds was excellent.

There arose a serious problem. Leeds didn't know how long to toast the Eggos. His toaster, which so brilliantly detected when bread was done toasting, didn't know how long the Eggos needed crisping either. Frantically he checked the packaging. Packaging always told how long to toast things. He found no answers there. He longed for some sign from the manufacturers, some morsel of knowledge that simply said, "Toast on seven for a minute and a half." Was that so much to ask?

Leeds was globally-aware enough to realize that it was. Toasters are different. A seven on his Kenmore on the counter wasn't the same as the seven on Hernando Sanchez's Toastmaster he kept next to his desktop. Asking the fine makers of Eggos to somehow know exactly which number to turn the dial to on his individual toaster was madness.

But Leeds, no longer concerned about the now browning and smoking status of his Eggos, had an epiphany. Why is the seven on my toaster different from any other toaster? There's really no reason for it. What does my seven mean? What does my eight mean? Why does that toaster go to eleven when mine only goes to nine? There's no logic behind the system! There's a better way, surely!

Leeds knew it. There was no denying it: the toaster industry needed reform. He had known it was coming for a long time. He had seen the problems in other industries before. Why the Americans were still using the English system of measurement he had no idea. There was no reason that Leeds couldn't find out how long to toast his Eggo and on what dial setting. No reason, other than the fact that the toaster industry had no definable standards or leaders. There was no government there; only toast.

That was many years ago. Our extraordinary specimen of a man had been on his quest for three months now. Of course he had been planning long before the actual launch date. He went through college and formed relationships and networks. He led a life, and a fairly successful life at that. All that aside, he took his questing seriously.

Leeds' plan was unique in that it started with toasters. He fully expected that the world would change because of his plan. Nobody else, with such a lofty goal, had ever started with toasters before. He was forging a new path here. And, if he was successful, nobody would ever have to forge that same new ground again. Oh yes, Leeds was in it for reals.

The world needed to be more unified. Not unified as in government peaceful happy unified, but unified in the "let's work together to make sure I weigh the same in Thailand as I do in Canada" unified. Leeds knew his history. He knew about the World Wars, and why the Americans sided with one side over the other. The ties that bound them; the world needed more ties. Having the same number on your toasters was a big step to helping people realize that the Asians were just the same as the Germans deep down.

He would start with the toaster industry. He'd work as long as it took to get all the big names in bread-conversion to make a standard on their number system. He didn't really care what form it took, he just knew that it was needed. He'd document everything that he did, keeping careful record. After all the work, when everything was done, he'd publish it. He'd push his little envelope through every medium he could find. Online, scholarly journals, public broadcasting; everybody would know that the toaster industry had finally found its soul and become standardized. Then, once the masses were enlightened, he'd hit them with the winner shot. "Why, if the toaster industry can come together to make a logical method for telling how brown you want you toast, can't the Americans find a logical way to use the metric system? Why can't we find a decent way to communicate with each other? Why can't we make coal mining in China follow the same rules at Coal mining in the Nile Delta? Why must we fight?"

And then, after the emotional appeal that would be sure to woo the audiences, Leeds would fade into the distance. He was not the one to change the world, he was the one to start the ball rolling. He knew that he couldn't do it for them, he just had to help them realize that they had the power and the obligation to do it themselves.

It was ambitious. It was almost crazy. And yet, it would work. Leeds knew it. Anybody willing to listen to him and really give it a shot knew it. It was so out there that it was stunningly perfect. The toaster industry: it was the only logical place to start.

Leeds had just gotten out of a meeting with the big wigs at Honcho Home Appliances. Nobody truly appreciated how hard it was for Leeds to actually get an appointment with those guys. "Hi, I'm Copeman Leeds, I'm the world's foremost toast advocate. I've detected a serious problem with the dial you are using in your toaster models, and I think I've got a lot of insight onto how you could increase your business and save the world. Can I have 25 minutes to have a discussion with you about it?"

None of them took him serious in the beginning. It was a long process, but Leeds was actually seeing success. He knew it would come eventually, but the naysayers were surprised. They didn't matter to Leeds much though.

"Look mister, if we started using your standard for dial numbers, we'd have to have one through 55 plastered on every toaster! This is no Proctor-silex, this is a Honcho toaster. We could brown an entire buffalo in 66 seconds. Your scale just isn't big enough for us. Not only that, but we're very happy with our current number system. I appreciate the time you've taken to decieve my receptionist enough to make her let you through that door over there, but I'm just gonna have to ask you to leave. Take care now."

Texans, always with their reluctance to put one through 55 on their toasters. Another day, another rejection. It didn't matter. The time would come.

He was driving, pondering the plan, as usual. The plan wasn't his whole life. He was going home to his family. They loved him, and he loved them. It was a good arrangement really. He got on the motorway, and then everything changed forever.